


i did it my way

by peachypylades



Series: skate to one song only; olympics au [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 2014 Winter Olympics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Alternate Universe - Skating, Curling, Ice Skating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 05:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15284238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachypylades/pseuds/peachypylades
Summary: Then, before Courfeyrac can think of hanging up, Combeferre adds, “Hey, Fey?”“Yeah?” He asks, confused at this change of tone.“You’ve triple axeled into my heart.” He says, meekly. Courfeyrac can feel the blush coming through the line.Courfeyrac giggles. Not at him, but because of how absolutely precious that was. “You’re skating on thin ice, ‘Ferre.”it's Sochi, 2014. Officially Courfeyrac's first Olympic games, competing in the men's singles in figure skating. Will he find a medal, and perhaps love along the way?





	i did it my way

**Author's Note:**

> another olympics au fic!   
> courfeyrac is heavily inspired by american figure skater adam rippon, as well as former competitive skater johnny weir. his short program and free skate are inspired by adam's arrival of the birds program, and his costumes are heavily inspired by weir.   
> the title is of course from johnny's 2006 program from the olympics, 'my way' by frank sinatra. who's songs are too good not to be titles!

Dig your toe pick into the ice, push off, and fly. Courfeyrac did this with every jump. Singles, doubles, triples— you name it, he jumped with it. Through junior level, senior level— god, even at the Olympics, he reminded himself every time, to just fly. 

It had always been easier to be a bird. Even as a child, he had grown up watching the birds swoop and dive, into his thin hair and across his cheeks. Things were easier in the air. He scoffed at being a pilot, because he didn’t want to be in a metal box. He wanted to throw himself out with his arms tucked in, and fly by his own accord. His parents put him in ballet at age five, so his sister wouldn’t be alone. He loved it. Every movement felt like the fluidity of the air. But it wasn’t enough. But by the time he was six, it was 1998, and the Olympics were held in Nagano. Sure, it was exciting to see a Frenchman on the podium, and a high medal winner no less, but, what Courfeyrac’s childlike eyes locked into was Tara Lipinski, American figure skater, winning gold.

She was fourteen, not eight years older than he was, and she had won Olympic gold. He wanted to do that. 

So he started. The local French skate club wasn’t exactly what he anticipated, but knowing all the basics from ballet, Courfeyrac quickly skyrocketed through his levels. He met a duo, who stopped attending the same classes as him some time ago, named Alexandre and Cosette. He quickly grew attached to Alexandre, and the two were fast friends. They grew up together. They landed singles, doubles— all of it, side by side. That was, until the Enjolras siblings decided to continue on with ice dance, and that was another story entirely. While Courfeyrac was nailing his triple axel, Enjolras was practicing perfecting lifting his sister up, and dancing ballroom. That didn’t stop them, though. They did everything together, regardless. One could think the two were ice dance partners, if Cosette wasn’t there. 

Courfeyrac did everything at the rink. He did his homework on the sidelines as hockey teams practiced, he knew his coach better than he knew his own father, and he could count his spins better than he could ever complete trigonometry. Maybe that’s how he got to the senior level. His devotion and love of the sport was something people envied. 

But, when they say you are your own worst critic, Courfeyrac is the image that one should see. Courfeyrac judged himself so thoroughly that his own coach found it troublesome. Whether it be that he did not think he was completing his spins perfectly, or if his timing was off on the music-- Courfeyrac constantly judged himself farther than he judged anyone else. 

Courfeyrac became the type of skater who placed artistry above his athleticism. While he could do a solid triple axel, and a few well executed types of quads, he always felt more comfortable creating a story. Footwork and facial expressions were his forte, living within the music. That’s what he is known for, at least. While his competition took the athleticism to new lengths, getting new heights on their quads and putting two or three even later in their programs, Courfeyrac moved people to tears. His skating was consistent and clean. He always stayed aligned and with a good momentum. His edges were clean and each movement was visually casual but extremely calculated.

He brought something different to the sport. He brought passion and ambition. His skates became paintbrushes and his ice was the canvas. If his head was in the right space then he would be golden. And he won, sometimes. Through his junior years he won gold and silver between events. And as he entered adulthood, he succeeded at the Worlds, getting fourth place, above all. He didn’t quite make it to Nagano, but by the time he was twenty two, he was on the bus with the rest of the French Olympic team, on the way to Sochi’s Olympic Village.

He had nabbed a seat next to Enjolras, only because Cosette and Éponine— who was an alpine skier— had managed to strike up a conversation. His hand, trembling, held tightly to Enjolras’. They talked into the day, and as they unpacked their suitcases and got ready for the opening ceremonies, Courfeyrac was always near tears. 

This was all that he had dreamed of. Since he was young, he wanted to be Kristi Yamaguchi, he wanted to be Brian Orser. He wanted to be beautiful. He wanted to fly. And now he was going to— he was going to make history, soaring across the ice. He couldn’t understand how he got the opportunity to be here. Even laying on his bed in the Olympic Village was stressful enough. Everytime he closed his eyes he was simply at home. He wasn’t anywhere important— but that wasn’t true. He was at the Olympics. He couldn’t stop overthinking all that. He could ruin his short. He could ruin all his programs. He could overthink later. 

For now, they had the opening ceremonies. And that night of February the seventh, was a total whirlwind. But one important thing we cannot skim over, was Courfeyrac meeting the love of his life. 

Which, was of course an overstatement. But it’s what Courfeyrac called meeting the French Curling Team. Once player in particular sparked his interest: Mathis Combeferre. He was indeed interesting. He was the most beautiful boy he had ever seen— everyone else seemed to think so too. Mathis had round rimmed glasses, with extremely thick lenses. It was endearing to look at. He had thick tresses, and soft features— except that jawline and those cheekbones, digging deep into his skin. And he was always so happy. Everything seemed to make him smile. He was always laughing with his teammates, in those tight slacks. It was unfair. Courfeyrac looked like the abominable snowman, and Combeferre looked just the right size to cuddle by the fireplace. But, that’s definitely not what Courfeyrac was thinking of. No, no. He was mostly focusing on immediately finding this guy’s name. 

He tugged Enjolras’ arm, bouncing up and down to try and see this taller man again. “Enjo! Enjo— please, please tell me you know the curlers.” 

“Why would I know the curlers?” Enjolras wrenched his arm from Courfeyrac’s tight hold, and glanced back at the Canadian team, grimacing when he caught eyes with a certain Québécois man. 

“Because— I would so twizzle with him.” The man says, the ice dancing pun slipping from his lips without warning. 

“Oh, gross, Fey! You don’t even know his name!” The blond recounted, adjusting his scarf. 

“Look, gold isn’t the only thing he could get on that podium.” Courfeyrac shrugged. The jokes were nearly too much, but this beautiful curler wasn’t in view so, he felt like he could make them quietly. As the French team began to walk out onto the stage, ready to wave their flags and scream for the camera, Courfeyrac had a completely different plan. 

“Let’s go see him!” He exclaimed, grabbing Enjolras by his scarf. 

“No! We should stay with the skaters! Besides— what are you even going to—” Enjolras was of course, cut off by the sudden sway of the world as Courfeyrac grabbed him and pulled him towards the other athletes. 

Courfeyrac was absolutely blowing through the crowds. He nearly knocked over Éponine and Jehan, and skirted around the bobsled team because they were actually frightening. It was only when Enjolras and Courfeyrac, two very out of place men in a sea of curlers and skiers, finally got to the center of the group, that Enjolras realized Courfeyrac had absolutely no plan. No plan whatsoever. In fact, the moment his eyes caught Combeferre’s, he suddenly said, “perhaps this is a bad idea?” 

Enjolras could scream, but he didn’t. 

They were lucky Combeferre noticed them, because anyone on the women’s curling team would’ve shouted at them for shoving them about. No, no, Combeferre genuinely grinned. 

He pushed up his glasses, and adjusted his scarf. “Bonjour.” 

Théodore de Courfeyrac had never been so threatened by another man’s smile before but there was a first time for everything. He swallowed thickly, and adjusted that scarf around his pink ears. “Um?” A breathy, nervous laugh escaped him, and he was surrounded by the chilly air. 

“Um?” Combeferre raised an eyebrow, that good-natured smile still stretched onto his face. He was so non-judgemental, so kind, and so pretty. This man was bound to become a national treasure sometime soon. 

“I— I’m, uh, I’m Théo.” He grinned, turning to face and wave at the crowd again. Being this close to the front was absolutely nerve wrecking. “I’m Théodore. Courfeyrac, I’m in the—“

“Men’s singles. I know.” Combeferre’s lips quirked, and he raised an eyebrow at the young skater. “It’s nice to meet you— sorry we never got around to it sooner but,” he pauses here to chuckle a little, and wave at the screaming crowds. “It’s not like we had many chances to compete with each other.” 

Relief floods Théo, and he snorts, his brown eyes shining brightly. “I guess you’re right—“ he paused here to grab Enjolras’ arm so he couldn’t escape. “What’s your name, or shall I keep calling you tall, dark, and handsome?” 

This was Combeferre’s turn to laugh and re-adjust his glasses, saying, “Mathis. Mathis Combeferre. You can call me ‘Ferre. The team does all the time.” He grins, and that’s when Courfeyrac’s heart melts. “I’ll see you ‘round then, right?” 

That’s just when Enjolras tugs him away, back towards his sister and the rest of Team France’s ice skating team. “Oh, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, quietly testing the name: Mathis. Mathis, Mathis, Mathis— what a beautiful name for a beautiful boy. It fell off the tongue better than Théo’s own. “I think I’m in luge.”

“I’m leaving you in Sochi.” Enjolras hisses. 

The next few days are an absolute blur. After all the team qualifications, and their subsequent loss in the team qualifications and team final, Courfeyrac was practicing like a madman. Besides that, the Olympic Village wasn’t exactly top notch quality, but it made for the team getting infinitely closer. He saw Combeferre everywhere. The curling team had apparently been to a few of the women’s ice hockey competitions, and checked out alpine skiing, but not the figure skating final. Courfeyrac couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad one, considering he wanted Combeferre to take an interest in him, but he had also had the worst skate of his life. He didn’t land a single toe-loop, couldn’t keep his sit spin, and even the simplest of double-axels were counted off for. He didn’t want Mathis to see him suffer like that, but, he also had a thing for the curler. 

Théo, coming down from a Alpine skiing meet, where he went with Enjolras and Cosette to watch Éponine, ran right into the man that had completely thrown him off his rhythm. Well, that’s what he claimed. He couldn’t blame Combeferre on the missed jumps and flopped spins. But he could blame those pretty brown eyes for all the heart-wrenchingly beautiful gazes that held him right in his spot. 

He ran into the curler head on, gasping when the skip knocked into his chest. He stumbled back, adjusting his cap, before looking up at the culprit.

“I’m sorry!” They’d both managed to say it at the same time, both equally as shocked, and equally as worried for the other in their eyes. 

“Oh,” Combeferre tilted his head, “Théo. It’s good to see you. Where are you headed?”

Courfeyrac’s brain was short circuiting, and it took a moment for him to gather all the thoughts that were swirling and neatly put them back in the filing cabinet of his brain, but he managed. He cleared his throat, and grinned, saying sweetly, “Just to my room. Wanna join?” The flirt was suggested with a wink, and a step closer to the bespeckled man. 

“Oh, uh,” Combeferre flushed. “I don’t think I can. I was heading to another event myself.” 

“Oh,” Courfeyrac sticks out his tongue, and instead says, “don’t you have a game tomorrow?” It’s better to distract from the wound he just received. Courfeyrac was definitely better than any short-track final Combeferre could go see. 

“Yeah!” Combeferre exclaimed, the joy stretched onto his face. This guy loved to throw stones. 

“Would you mind if I came?” Courfeyrac asked. “Not like— you know, but like, I’ve never seen curling!” He tried to find something to pull himself out of this hole he dug. 

“No, not at all.” Combeferre grinned. “It’ll be nice to know you’re there.” 

“Oh, don’t worry, cutie. I’ll be your good luck charm.” The skater chirped, and squeezed Combeferre’s very built arm. “You’ll do great.” 

He did, in fact, do great. The French team was on fire for most of the game. It was a rocky (pun completely intended) start, but Courfeyrac’s favorite skip managed to do some damage. They proceeded easily to the next round, and Courfeyrac had successfully been the loudest person there. It was amazing. 

What was also pretty amazing was flashing his athlete’s pass and getting to wave at Combeferre as he left the ice. 

“Hey!” Combeferre couldn’t run to him, not wearing normal shoes, so he stepped very carefully across the ice to the young skater, and grabbed his hand. “You actually came!” 

“Of course I did! I was screaming. Well, more like, excitedly talking. There was a very big Swedish grandpa next to me and, well, he probably could’ve laid me out easily if I talked too loudly.” The ice skater laughed, following Combeferre as he helped carry equipment back to Team France. “But that was brilliant! And you’re so calculated it’s like— you do all the math problems in your head.” 

“Kind of like that.” Combeferre laughed. “But it isn’t exactly math.” 

He turned to face the young man, his hands on his hips. He couldn’t be exactly the same age as Courfeyrac. He was taller, stronger, wiser. There was something in his eyes that showed he was more. More than whatever Courfeyrac was. But he looked at Courfeyrac like he was an angel— not like he was some skater who’d been obsessing over him for the past few days. 

Courfeyrac really couldn’t understand why. 

“What is it then?” He asked softly. 

“Friction, toss, curve. More like physics things then, well, math things. But I don’t exactly use science. I just know where my stone is going.” Mathis tilts his head. “Kinda like how you don’t think of the velocity when you pull your arms in for a jump, you just do it because it’s how you do it.” 

Never had a man talked physics to him and he had wanted him to keep going. 

“I guess so.” Courfeyrac says, that half smile rising to his cheeks. 

There’s a silence between them, two men, smiling at one another with those open eyes expressions. 

Courfeyrac, overwhelmed by this softness, by the sight Combeferre is granting him, hardly can take it. Swiftly, he says, “Will you watch my short program?” It’s spit out quickly, through shining brown eyes and a nervous accent to his words. 

Combeferre, grinning, says quickly, “Well, it’s only fair, isn’t it?” 

“It is!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “I need a good luck charm, too.” 

“Oh no, I’ve seen you skate, Fey.” Combeferre begins to lead them towards the busses, totally oblivious to how much that nickname makes Courfeyrac’s heart soar. “You don’t need luck.” 

“Oh, I do. That last program was pure hell. My coach was so pissed.” Courfeyrac manages, rushing to catch up with the long-legged skip. “I couldn’t land anything.” 

Then, on a long shot, he adds, “Just distracted by you. You can’t get eyes as pretty as yours out of your head.” 

Combeferre sputters, and climbs into the bus, where most of his teammates have fallen asleep, exhausted. Courfeyrac almost worries that he’s hurting Combeferre but— that man just motions for him to sit down too. 

Courfeyrac does, and waits for a response to that flirt. 

All he gets is the pretty man blushing wildly. “No way,” he said, shaking his head. The curler was in absolute denial over this, as he awkwardly pushed up his glasses. 

“Yes way!” Courfeyrac leaned forward, his eyes glimmering. It was fun to tease. It helped keep the very real feelings he had at bay. “You’re hot as hell, Mathis.” 

Combeferre rolled his eyes, sitting back in the chair and fiddling with his cell phone. Those stupid pants looked cute on him too. Courfeyrac was angry, this man could make anything look good. 

“You are.” He held his forearm, just so Combeferre would look back up at him, lips parted. He had pretty lips too. Everything about him was gorgeous. Courfeyrac’s fingers brushed his arm, the dark skin beneath his fingertips heating up at the touch. “Hot enough I’d let you curl me right over a table.” 

The silence that followed was deafening. Combeferre’s entire face lit up, and the red in his uniform could hardly compete with the red on his cheeks. He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck and laughed, the pun just too on the nose for him. Then, very softly, and in a way only Combeferre could, he said, “You’re cute too, Théo.” 

And if that wasn’t the biggest relief of Théo’s whole life. He laughed, and leaned against Combeferre’s arm. “Thank you.” 

Combeferre blushes, nervously looking out on the Russian landscape, with Courfeyrac’s cheek still against his arm. And he was okay with that. 

It was the thirteenth when Courfeyrac’s short program began. He was worried Combeferre might not be there, because of another round robin he had that day as well. But when he got a text— because some brave soul had gotten the angel’s phone number for him, and they’d begun texting into the night— that he would be there, suddenly the day didn’t seem so crazy. 

When he arrived at the skating palace, there were some instantaneous concerns to be taken care of. He got dressed— the costume hand tailored by a family friend, complete with sheer sleeves that covered his fingers in mock, black gloves, bedazzled across the neck and arms and down his torso, to his right fitting pants that slipped over the tops of his skates— and began waiting anxiously for his group. 

The first group began, and the stakes were already high. Enjolras was texting him all sorts of pointers about the skaters, exclaiming at how wonderful the jumps were. Courfeyrac didn’t really read them— his mind was everywhere but the competitors. He usually stretched a lot, before he went on. He went through the routine in one of the practice rooms once more, and usually that was enough for him. He just had to calm down, now. That was the problem. 

As he stood on the sidelines and the first group came off the ice, he searched the stands for the one person he wanted to impress. Mathis had managed a good seat, reserved for athletes, and had brought along a fellow Team France member, Éponine. At his other side was Enjolras and Cosette, who were engrossed in a conversation with him. Enjolras kept gesturing to the ice as the Zamboni swept through, and Courfeyrac couldn’t help but wonder what he was saying. Combeferre looked engrossed in it, though, nodding silently. 

As the Zamboni left and the second group, his, were allowed onto the ice, he made a solemn vow to do something impressive out there. He couldn’t leave Combeferre thinking he was a bad good luck charm, now could he? 

So, he began by warming up, a few simple spins and skating around the length of the ice, trying to get a feel for the smoothness. It’s when he gets a little daring, that things get real interesting. When he catches Combeferre’s eye on him, he winks, and begins to skate backwards, crossing over and checking behind him a few times before completing a smoothly landed triple loop. It’s not in his program but damn does it make him look good. 

The crowd cheers, naturally, and Combeferre cheers along with them. Nothing could be more fascinating than seeing the way Combeferre beams from behind those glasses. 

As Courfeyrac skates off the ice to wait for his turn, third in this group, he catches a crudely drawn sign that Combeferre is holding up. “Go France!” And it’s encouraging. It all but makes him shine, like the boy head over heels he is. 

His next few tedious minutes are spent bouncing outside the entrance to the ice, nervously listening to his coach talk about how he needs to calm down, without actually calming down. It’s when the Japanese skater leaves the ice that he goes next, and he takes a steadying breath. 

“You can do this.” He murmured to himself, slipping off his skate guards and handing them to an attendant. “You can do this.” All thoughts of Combeferre, all thoughts of impressions anyone— they were out the door. 

Because he was going to fly. 

It was his first Olympic Games, and he wasn’t going to let any sort of loving for a sweet boy in the stands ruin it. 

“Next to skate: representing France, Théodore de Courfeyrac.” 

And if that wasn’t the most nerve-wracking sentence. 

He stepped out onto the ice, his arms opened wide and his smile opened wider. He pressed a dainty finger to his chin, and tilted his head to the side, ready at the starting position at the center of the ice. The music began, and then came the short minutes that he had to make the judges, and everyone in the crowd, love him. 

It began with footwork and a difficult entry to a triple axel. It was a little under rotated, even he could admit that, but he stuck the landing and the skate hardly wobbled. Then, he moved along into his next element. His exit was clean and he flew into a spread eagle, his arms open wide and his eyes shining into the audience. He swore he could see Combeferre in the blurry faces. He has a couple of spins amongst his footwork, his expression changing as the music moved from bright, to sad, to forlorn. 

His next element, a triple on a salchow, goes without a hitch. So does the next two or so elements. He is shining. He begins to spin, quickly, raising his hands to the sky. When they come down he begins to skate up, to get enough momentum with his quad. He falters here, leaning too far into his skate, but he simply trips. His next choreography step sequence and camel spin go without a hitch, and he ends with a spin sequence that has a few ladies gasping. 

He’s absolutely wheezing by the time he stops, opens his arms, and grins wildly st the judges. He bows, and turns to bow at the audience, waving as flowers are dropped into the rink below. 

He breaks here, his grin too wide that he had to kneel down, gasping to catch his breath as laughs pelted him. He was so happy. Tears gathered, and he bowed once more, before he took quickly to the exit, and to his coach. 

He was given his guards in a rush, and he ran to the Kiss and Cry like a madman, waving enthusiastically at the camera. He sits down, and takes the jacket given to him and puts it on, shivering as he stares up at the scoreboard. 

“Amazing, T,” his coach says, wrapping his arm around him.

Courfeyrac laughs and nods, his hands pressed to his mouth. 

“Representing France: Théodore de Courfeyrac has earned 83.45 in the short program. He is currently in first place.” 

Courfeyrac screams, jumps up, and grabs ahold of his coach tightly. He jumps for joy, wobbling in his skates, and wipes quick tears from his eyes. He waves frantically and throws kisses at the camera. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Combeferre. He hopes one of those kisses make it to him. 

By the end of the short program he is in fifth place, and he cannot breathe. He’s dressed out of his costume and finally gets to lay in sweatpants and breathe— something he hasn’t done in an extremely long time tonight. He’s laying on the benches as his coach helps him pack their things back up, when a group approaches him. 

“Fey! That was brilliant!” Combeferre is the first to speak, mysticism in his eyes. 

“Your jumps were wobbly.” Enjolras comments, but still grabs Courfeyrac in a hug anyways. 

“Your spins were so solid!” Cosette cheered, and Éponine nodded. She knew nothing about the sport but, hey. Looked cool. 

Courfeyrac laughs breathlessly, holding onto his teammate tightly. “Thanks guys.” 

“It was truly magnificent.” Combeferre says, sitting by his side. “You spun four times. In the air!” 

Courfeyrac didn’t want to get into the technicalities, but he nodded, and laughed softly. “I did.” 

“That’s amazing!” Combeferre wrapped his arms around the boy, and he said, “how can you handle that?”

“Lots and lots of physical therapy, my friend.” Enjolras teased. 

“Shut up,” Courfeyrac said. “Let me have my moment with Hot Stuff.” He said all this from the comfort of a hug with Combeferre. 

When they finally separated, they remained close, and Combeferre began, “So, when’s the next one?” His eyes were glittering with pride. Courfeyrac could see it. He could feel it radiating off of him. Combeferre was proud of him. And for some reason, that was the absolute best feeling in the world. 

“Tomorrow! You’ve got to come.” Courfeyrac grins. “I have a good feeling about it.” 

Courfeyrac was laying in bed that night, next to his roommate, when a buzz came from his cellphone. He groaned, and rolled over, reaching for the bedazzled case. ‘Ferre-Bear’ it said, followed by an obscene amount of hearts. It seemed like he could take the call now, especially that it was a certain someone. 

He answered, and said softly, “Bonjour?” He rolled over, and hoped that his roommate wouldn’t be so callous as to ask who it was. 

“Bonjour, Théo.” Combeferre replied happily, his voice alight. There was shuffling, and the sound of wind. Combeferre was outside?

“You should stay in. Too cold and scary.” His own voice was all heavy and sleepy. “Could be rouge snowboarders out there.” 

Combeferre snorted, “how are you doing? You had a long day today.” 

“Other than extremely sore, and really, really tired? I’m doing okay. My feet are killing me— Coach is probably going to make me soak. And my shoulders— shit they hurt.” He explains, laying back onto his back. 

“Those things— that you were doing, the spins? They were amazing— god. Wow. You’re amazing.” It didn’t just sound like he was talking about his skating. 

“Layback spins. Personally, I think I have the best in the business.” Courfeyrac replies. “Just makes my shoulders tight.” 

“I love the confidence.” — that makes Courfeyrac’s heart flutter— “so, Théo. Do you have family?” 

“A brother, Jac. He’s small, now, but he’s here. So are my parents but— it’s been dreadfully busy. And he’s too young to be out in the cold, often times.” Courfeyrac replies, unsure of this conversation. Was Combeferre trying to get to know him? “And you, Mathis?”

“No, no siblings. A mom, and she couldn’t make the flight. She’s sick. She… works too hard.” It is said with a lick of sweetness, and admiration. Combeferre clearly loves his mother, and Courfeyrac grins because of it. 

“So no one to watch you? I guess I’ll have to be your biggest fan.” 

“I think you already are.” Mathis says, laughing softly over the line. “No one has ever sat through a whole round robin, just for me.” 

“Well, I’ll see you at the next one. And the next one, and the next, until you win that gold.” Théo says, firmly. 

“And I’ll see you tomorrow, at yours.” Mathis replies, his voice soft. 

Tomorrow. Oh, yes, the free skate. Softly, Courfeyrac shifts to look at the clock. It reads eleven, but he feels like it’s hours ahead. His internal clock is still too far out of it. “Yeah. I should probably be getting to bed, then.” 

“You should. You’ll be needing it.” Combeferre says. Then, before Courfeyrac can think of hanging up, Combeferre adds, “Hey, Fey?” 

“Yeah?” He asks, confused at this change of tone. 

“You’ve triple axeled into my heart.” He says, meekly. Courfeyrac can feel the blush coming through the line. 

Courfeyrac giggles. Not at him, but because of how absolutely precious that was. “You’re skating on thin ice, ‘Ferre.”

The next day was nearly a blur. Courfeyrac soaked his feet and worked with his coach most of his day. He worries, mostly. He wants to medal, but he doesn’t know if it’s possible. His free skate is pretty good, but he doesn’t know if it’s Olympic good. 

He doesn’t really have time to worry about all this, though. In fact, Courfeyrac doesn’t have much time because of Combeferre. Combeferre refuses to allow him to be upset, or nervous. 

Combeferre sends countless texts, saying again and again, “hey! check out this dog the team found! x”   
“look how cool!”   
“the grass is painted green?”  
“this is sochiessy, but im so glad we’re friends.” 

Courfeyrac never knew the boy he thought was hot and who he blatantly flirted with was so cute, but, apparently, he was. He was precious, and Courfeyrac kinda just wanted a pocket sized Combeferre to keep around. Who knew the opening ceremony could get so cute? Who knew he’d be telling this man all about his life, his favorite colors, how he liked his eggs, his favorite books, movies— who knew he’d know that about Combeferre?

It was kinda jaw dropping. 

With all this going on, he almost forgot what was about to happen. It only became real when he realized where they were headed. He was bouncing awkwardly again in his bus chair, holding his skates in his lap and thinking about when Combeferre would answer the next question — do you think iron man is really that good?— when his coach pockets his cellphone. 

“Hey!” Courfeyrac exclaims. 

“No, no. You need to focus. Your crush can wait until after you crush it on the ice. I know you can do this, Courfeyrac. You’ve just got to focus.” The old man has a twinkling smile, and Courfeyrac let it go. Combeferre will be there anyways. No need to worry, he’d see those reassuring brown eyes again. 

They all step out of the bus, and a million camera are flattering and clanging to take pictures, and Courfeyrac is all smiles, waving and laughing at each camera. When his coach motions him inside, he waves goodbye, and walks into the ice palace. 

They spend hours stretching, training, trying to get loose for the event. Courfeyrac listens to music on his iPod, still not allowed the phone back, and jumps rope. He is worried, sure, but he doesn’t let it show. The competition is in full swing, and he’s apart of the last group. He will either be at the top or at the bottom. And he doesn’t yet know which one he expects to be at. 

“Goddamn.” His coach says, as the second to last group goes on. “This curler never shuts up, does he?” He tries to turn Courfeyrac’s phone off again, but it just kept buzzing, and Courfeyrac is so glad for that. Combeferre still wants to talk to him. Combeferre is, perhaps, worried about him. 

Courfeyrac grins. His curler never shuts up. 

He goes out to watch the competition, because, well, he kinda has to, and also because he’s searching for a pair of glasses in the crowd. He looks nervously around, but he doesn’t think he sees him. He frowns, and leans back against the barrier, watching the American skater. They’re always so loud and proud, those Americans. 

When his group is going out on the ice, he’ll check for Combeferre. Combeferre promised, and he wouldn’t back out of that promise. Courfeyrac knows him. He can’t be worried about this right now. Not when Olympic gold is on the line. 

He waits and waits, and it feels like forever before his feet touch the ice. When he finally gets out there, he skates a full circle around the ice, looking intensely at the stands with a smile. When his eyes caught Enjolras’, he grinned, and searched next to him. Combeferre’s eyes were watching him, and he had a feeling they had been for a long time. 

Good, he thought. That’s exactly where they should be. 

He winked, and he knows the camera catches it, but he doesn’t care. He starts to practice a few jumps, even a quad, careful not to jump in front of any skater. He shakes out his hands. He was trying so hard not to be nervous, but this was his last chance to prove this. Who knew if he would be injured this time four years from now? Who knew if he would even make it to PyeongChang? 

He got off the ice nervously, and took back his skate guards. He went back to sit down, trudging slightly behind his coach. He struggled with shaking hands to unzip his coat, and tug it off to reveal his costume. The applique feathers, white and sharp, shined over his tight pants. One arm, sheer, and the other, a dark blue. He took a deep breath. 

“Can I text one thing?” He asks, suddenly. 

“Will it get you to chill out a little?” His coach asks, tugging the phone out of his breast pocket. 

“Yeah. You’ll have to send it for me, can’t, with the gloves.” He waves both his fingers at his coach. He could type. He was just trembling too much to do it. 

“To Lover Boy?” His coach asks, opening the cellphone and searching for the texts. 

“Yeah.” He stands, just as the skater before him gets off the ice, “Tell him to watch me.” He tilted his head up, sharpened his gaze, and tightened his jaw. 

He looked back at his judge, and grinned. If Combeferre was watching, he could do this. It was him, the ice, and Combeferre. That’s all that mattered. They would fly together. 

“Representing France: Théodore de Courfeyrac. He is currently in fifth place.” 

Courfeyrac sends that jaw dropping smile to the judges, and stretched his arms out, bowing slightly to them, before drawing his arms in at his starting position. 

He inhales, and he flies. He starts off an enchanting step sequence into a quad lutz. He doesn’t fall, and quietly, he tells himself: thank god. He can’t disappoint. He transitions across the ice into a triple flip and a triple loop, something he is much more comfortable with. He lands these with ease. So far, the program is squeaky clean. It needs to be— he’s among the best in the world. A double axel follows, planned, of course, and his skate doesn’t wobble. He skates into a spin sequence at the center of the ice. It’s during spins that he truly feels like he’s flying. The world is blurry, and he is among the stars. He has to remind himself to breathe here, because everything is far too much to take in. 

The rest of his program gets a little wobbly. He doesn’t land one of his triple axels, and he curses himself quietly for it. But he’s up quickly, and running into the second, which he lands with flying colors. At least it’s fully rotated, right? The rest of his program is a majority of step sequences and spins, and giving the judges the artistry they want. And they certainly get it. He throws in a single salchow, maybe to impress them, or maybe just to see his coach’s face afterwards. 

When he is done, he strikes his final pose, and sighs, gasping for breath again. There’s sweat in his eyes and he’s breathing heavily, arms rising to the judges mechanically, and bowing on instinct. He turns to the other side of the crowd and does the same, then he rushes off the ice. 

“Wonderful, T. Proud of you.” His coach claps him on the back as he puts on his guards. He shakes his head, still wheezing as he breathes. 

“I ruined those jumps, Coach.” He says, angrily. Only to himself— this was the Olympics. He couldn’t afford to lose those jumps. 

A bear comes falling down from the stands, and he looks up to see who tossed it. It’s Combeferre. His face is broken into the biggest smile, and he waves, his glasses slipping down his nose. Courfeyrac kneels to pick it up, his eyes still locked onto Combeferre. 

Slowly, a smile overtakes his grimacing features, and he kisses the bear’s snout, shouting, “merci beaucoup” up to Combeferre.

His coach is pushing him to the Kiss and Cry. He keeps that bear close to his chest, and tries hard not to put himself down anymore. 

Waving vibrantly at the camera, he winks, and sits back down next to his coach. There’s a few moments of silence with his coach squeezing his shoulder, and he keeps breathing heavily. 

He doesn’t hear his score. He doesn’t even comprehend it— his heart is aching in his chest too loudly. But when he hears first place again he could scream. He jumps up and stares at the screen, as his coach shoved him towards the green room, and hands him his phone. 

He wraps his coat around him and walks towards the green room cushions, sitting in the center chair. It’s a tedious few moments as two more skaters go, and come to join him. Courfeyrac has medaled at the 2014 Olympics. Courfeyrac is a bronze medalist. Courfeyrac is a Olympic bronze medalist. 

The medal ceremony is a blur. He just remembers looking at Yuzuru Hanyu and wanting to cry. He remembers hugging them both and letting a few tears loose. The next hour after is a blur too. His mom hugs him and they’re all crying— it’s the sweetest moment between a family.

There’s huge amounts of press everywhere, and before Courfeyrac can even think about resting, he has to talk to them. The NBC lady proudly announced him, and she began to speak to him in very, very poor French. He waved her off, softly reminding, “France is a very bilingual country.” He points out, his accented English sweet, and punctured with a smile. 

“Of course, my apologies!” Teresa flushes, and he laughs. 

“No, no. It was good! You’re doing great.” He chuckles, his hands in his pockets. 

“So, tell me, what was going through your head out there?” She holds the microphone to him, and he pauses. 

“I was thinking… Teresa, she wants this for me. I have to do it for her.” 

The interviewer, Teresa, laughs. “So, how can you do that? Those spins are the best in the ISU.” 

Courfeyrac smiles confidently and shrugs his shoulders, leaning into the microphone, “it is the French magic.” He winks. 

That’s the highlight of his interviews, really. All Courfeyrac said was probably gibberish, but his coach didn’t flick him on the back of the head, so he probably didn’t do that bad. Hopefully. God, he hoped it wasn’t that bad. An Olympic medalist can’t have bad interviews. 

As they leave back to their hotel, he sees his friends lingering by the locker room door, and he runs to them, that Nike sponsorship really coming in handy. He can’t believe he finally gets to see them. He’s been worried all night, happy, and sad. It’s been far too many emotions and he just really needs to let them out. These guys are the only people he feels comfortable with. The only people he wants to see. He wonders how Combeferre will feel— they’ve only recently met, but Courfeyrac trusts him to the ends of the earth, but that’s just the type of person he is. 

Combeferre is about to open his mouth to say something, to compliment that medal, but he doesn’t get the chance. Courfeyrac throws himself in his arms, screaming muffled against his shoulder. He’s precariously hanging on him, his tiptoes barely high enough to reach him. The screaming turns into sobbing, his shoulders shaking. 

“I did it,” He says weakly. He can’t believe it. It’s too much for him to grasp. 

Combeferre wraps his strong arm around him— all that rock throwing made the man like rock too— and nods. He squeezes his waist, free hand threading in his curls. “I saw you. You did it.” 

“Oh, Fey,” Cosette presses her hand to his back too, rubbing softly. “You did beautifully, darling. Beautifully.” 

Somehow, Enjolras comes in too, stepping towards them both, his hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Théo. That’s the best skate I’ve seen you do.” 

“Don’t get technical, Enjo. Just hug him.” Cosette chides, as she wraps her arms around Courfeyrac’s waist. He listens, his arms wrapping around Courfeyrac as well. 

Courfeyrac only sobs louder, shaking shamelessly in his friend’s protective hug. This is the best day of his life, and he is surrounded by the best people he could’ve asked for. No one speaks until his coach comes in, clearing his throat. Courfeyrac, with his face buried in Combeferre’s shoulder, hardly hears it. 

“C’mon. You all need to get to bed.” The old man says, hands in his pockets. He carried about these kids like they were his own— he’d been doing it for Courfeyrac his entire professional skating career. 

Combeferre lets him go, and Courfeyrac leans back, wiping his eyes. Combeferre brushes a stray tear away. “Proud of you, Fey.” He takes his hand, and they all walk out together. 

They pile into their ride, and Courfeyrac doesn’t let go of Combeferre’s hand, resting his cheek on his shoulder. Mathis doesn’t make any qualms about this, and his slow tenor voice continues the conversation he’s began with Enjolras, explaining his schedule for the next few days. Cosette squeezes Courfeyrac’s knee, and zips up his jacket for him. He doesn’t hear anymore of the words. Just the soft rhythm of Combeferre’s voice. 

The next time he gets to physically see Combeferre is at another curling match, and he’d managed to convince Enjolras to attend as well. They sat side by side, and Courfeyrac had a really good view of Combeferre’s ass. So there was that. He never got the chance to talk, though. The team won, and had so much press to do, just like a Courfeyrac that night. 

So, he heads home a little disappointed, and waits it all out. Combeferre calls again, and they chat. But it’s not the same as seeing him in person. He tells him as much, and Combeferre agrees. 

The curling matches start to come to a close, and Combeferre makes it to the final round. Well, not really. His team places third, and Courfeyrac is there to see it, happy and beaming and screaming. Two bronze medalists. Both of them! It’s like a dream come true. He never thought he would be rooting so loudly for a curling event, but when the score is announced he jumps to his feet and hollers like a hockey fan. 

Now they get to spend more time together. Tonight in particular, the two medalists are knee to knee on Courfeyrac’s bed, laughing at some articles written about Combeferre on Twitter. 

“Check out the French Curler who everyone’s obsessed with. Mathis Combeferre, dubbed by the internet as the sexy curler, has just won Olympic bronze for his home country. However, users are more disappointed than excited. One writing, ‘too bad france only one bronze. every time i saw the sexy curler it made the sport a little more interesting.’” Courfeyrac reads aloud, to a wheezing Combeferre. He leans forward, choking with laughter, until Courfeyrac joins in. 

“Wait, wait! There’s more! ‘I’m no curler,’ one user writes, ‘but I’d let @mcombeferre sweep me off my feet.’” Courfeyrac squeals, falling backwards and onto his pillow as he laughs. 

“That’s cute! That’s a cute one!” He exclaims, looking up at the blushing and laughing Combeferre. 

“It’s embarrassing!” Combeferre exclaims, laying down next to Courfeyrac. 

“They’re right, Mathis. I’d let you sweep me right off my feet.” Courfeyrac laughs. He keeps looking at his phone and sweeping through the article. There’s a tender moment of silence between them, and Combeferre pulls himself up on one arm, just to look at Courfeyrac. 

“Oh, another one, look—“ Courfeyrac catches the thoughtful gaze, and slowly sets his phone down. “Hey, what’s wrong? I can stop if you’re uncomfortable—“ 

“No. Just— I was, uh…” Mathis looks embarrassed again, and there’s a hint of nerves in his eyes. “Have I? Swept you off your feet, I mean.” 

Théo looks up at him, licking his lips awkwardly. Then, he looks to Combeferre’s lips, and back to those respectful, warm eyes. “What if you have?”

He never would’ve expected to be in this situation. He never would’ve expected an plan he hardly thought out to speak to a pretty, probably not even gay, curler at the opening ceremony of the Olympics, would result in this. A friendship spanning over a month, texts, calls, laughter, shared dinner, knowing Combeferre more than he knew the back of his hand. He never expected this— but yet… he had it. He loved it, and he didn’t want to let it go. 

Combeferre leans in to him, and suddenly his heart begins to race. Is he about to be kissed? Perhaps he is— oh, he hopes, maybe, just maybe— and those lips brush his. They’re warm, infinitely warm. Combeferre is like a space heater, he radiates this forgiving warmth about him. Courfeyrac can’t comprehend what is happening. His brain is sparking, every part of him feels stuck in place. The kiss is slow, but it only lasts a moment, that he is sure of. It feels like hours with his lips frozen against Combeferre’s. 

Then, suddenly they pull away, as does the man who had laid next to him just moments ago. “I— I thought that you meant, I— I guess I was mistaken. I’m so sorry.” Combeferre backs away from him, his eyes wide and almost hurt. 

“Ferre, no, I—“ he sits up, suddenly frightened. “That’s not what I meant, you just,” but he is cut off by the man shaking his head, and rushing out of the dorm. 

“Ferre!” Courfeyrac tries to follow him, but by the time he rushes out, Combeferre has disappeared. “Shit!” Courfeyrac rests his head against the doorframe, cursing himself. “Fuck!” He kicks his dresser, and slams the door on the way back in. 

This made things a whole lot more complicated. 

He throws himself into bed, and screams into his pillow. 

He doesn't see Combeferre again. Not for a long time, anyways. The Olympics are coming to a close, and he won’t answer his texts, calls— anything. And it’s really stressful. He wishes he wasn’t so silly, he wishes he could have grabbed that man and kissed him like he always dreamed he would. But now, he was a fool, and everyone could sense it. 

He doesn’t go to anymore events. He mostly hangs out with his mom or in his room. He roams around Sochi and takes pictures with fans, but he doesn’t go anywhere near the curlers. They all look at him like he’s done a grave disservice. He’s worried it will always be like this. He wants to turn back the clock, to start over to when he and Combeferre first met. He wishes this relationship wasn’t built so shakily. 

He wants more. He wants to visit this man in France. He wants to root for him. He wants to come home and see him. He wants to kiss him and laugh with him and hug him. Was that too much to ask for? Was it too much to wish that he could have all that and more? 

He goes to see Enjolras and Cosette compete. They do rather well, not as well as they had hoped for. He’s proud of them for their placement, even if they didn’t medal. They’re good sports about it, at least. He goes out with them for dinner, and they celebrate being one of the best in the world. Alexandre is grumpy, as he usually is. 

“You did good, Enjo.” Courfeyrac tried to encourage. It’s hard to encourage when your love life is in shambles like this. “You did really good.”

“No. We didn’t. Eighth isn’t good enough, Courfeyrac.” Enjolras says, bitterly. He shifts his food around on his plate. 

“We’ll do better in PyeongChang. You know that, brother. We have the talent, and Joly wants to get us to train with him in Canada. That’ll be excellent! In Québec, nonetheless. You’ll love it! They speak French there too!” Cosette tries to encourage. 

“Sure.” Alexandre grumbles, taming a nite of borsch. What made them order Russian food again?

“Enjolras, You did good. I’m proud of you.” Courfeyrac says, shrugging. “You’ll do better at Worlds anyways.” 

“Is something wrong, Courfeyrac?” Cosette, with her mothering instincts, reaches out to take his hand. 

No, Courfeyrac thinks. Just that I’ve broken the boy I may be a little in love with’s heart. What he says is, “No! No, just tired. That skate really drained me. I hope I’m all good for Worlds.” 

“Me too, sweetheart.” She squeezes his hand. “You’ll skate beautifully. I love seeing you skate.” 

The next time he hangs out with someone who isn’t his mother, is when Enjolras visits his room. He’s still frustrated with his ice dance, so Courfeyrac lets him in to rant. It’s easy to listen to, and he can add in on the conversation easily. It’s simple, really. He just nods and hums. Alexandre loves talking, so it isn’t hard for him to fill in the conversations all by himself. 

That is, until he finally gave up ranting and asked, “Jesus Christ. What’s the matter? You haven’t said a word all night.” 

Courfeyrac shakes his head. He can’t keep this all in. And Enjolras is his best friend. Why would he keep this from him? Enjolras tells him all about his pent up frustration with that Canadian hockey player. Why shouldn’t he tell Enjolras about his sexual frustrations? 

“I’m such an idiot. Such a big idiot. He kissed me. Enjolras— he kissed me! The prettiest, kindest, smartest man in the entire world, and he kissed me. And I was too… too slow.” He rubs his hands on his leggings and sighs, leaning his head back onto his headboard. 

“What do you mean?” Enjolras leans forward, looking curiously at his friend.

“I just… was frozen. Like I was when we first met. It was… all the emotions happened and I just froze. I wanted to kiss him. I should have. I can still feel his lips and I just. I ruined it.” Théo murmurs. 

“I’m sure you didn’t ruin it.” Enjolras interjects, “I mean, he likes you enough to kiss you. Surely this didn’t ruin all his feelings.” 

Enjolras stands up, and motion for Courfeyrac to come forward. “C’mon. We got somewhere to go.” 

“Where?”

“Just follow me.” Enjolras grabs Courfeyrac’s wrist, and leads him down the hallway. The Olympic Village was large, but apparently Enjolras knew exactly where he was going. They went through a few corridors, and down a long hall, before they ended up at the doorway. Enjolras knocks loudly, standing firm. For some reason, Courfeyrac is worried. He had no idea where or who they’re about to see, so he hides behind the short man, chewing his lip nervously. 

Mathis, beautiful, nervous, kind Mathis answers the door. 

“Enjolras?” He asks, confused. He looks him up and down, and that’s how he sees Courfeyrac. “Oh—“ he tries to shut the door, but Enjolras is too quick. He slams his hand against it, and looks at him firmly. 

“Don’t you dare.” Enjolras says. “Courfeyrac.” 

“Yes?” Courfeyrac steps out from behind he doorway, his eyes shooting to Combeferre. 

“Talk to him. Settle this. I’m getting a snack.” And with that, he’s gone. 

Courfeyrac slowly looks up at Combeferre, fiddling with his sleeves. Combeferre steps out into the hallway, and shuts the door behind him, sighing when Courfeyrac takes a step back. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that.” He says finally. 

“No!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “I wanted you to. I have been waiting since I met you. You’re magnificent, Ferre. I… I was just shocked. You’re perfect. And I’m me. I couldn’t imagine that you… you wanted to kiss me.” 

“I thought…” Mathis’ eyes search his, nervous. “You didn’t kiss back?” 

“I know.” Théo says shakily. He takes a step forward, and takes both of Mathis’ calloused hands into his own. “I know. And I regret it. I just never… never expected for you to do it. I thought you were just teasing.” 

“I wouldn’t tease with you, Théo.” Combeferre takes one hand from Courfeyrac’s, and shifts it back up to his cheek. “We both know that I’m no good with it, anyhow.”

“You really aren’t.” Courfeyrac giggles, his cheeks finally stretching into that dimpled smile. Combeferre’s thumb sinks into one of his dimples, and his eyes soften. “Can you let me try again?” The skater asks. 

“Please do.” Combeferre replies, nodding once. 

Courfeyrac stretches onto his top toes, his hands moving out of Combeferre’s grasp to wrap around his neck. He leans in, their breaths mingling and ghosting against each other’s, before they finally meet in blissful harmony. And Courfeyrac doesn’t leave him hanging here. They kiss, until that kiss melts and becomes deeper. Combeferre leans down, both hands sinking into the small of Courfeyrac’s back and bringing him into his chest. He sighs against his lips, gently allowing himself back until he hits the closed door. Courfeyrac tugs on him, wanting more, until they’re very rudely interrupted. 

“Ahem.” Enjolras stands at the end of the hall, his hands on his hips and a smirk on his face. “Are you busy?” 

“Yes.” Courfeyrac says breathlessly. “Unfortunately, we aren’t taking messages at the moment. Bye.” He reaches behind Combeferre and opens the door, connecting their lips again before they both stumble inside. 

“Roommate won’t be back until the end of the bobsledding.” Combeferre mumbles against his lips, already leading them both back towards the bed. 

“Good— that’s all the time we need.” Courfeyrac’s eyes glint with mischief, and he pushes Combeferre back. 

Sochi, 2014. The biggest athletes of their time, competing for gold medals. It’s the closing ceremonies, and Courfeyrac has just about kissed his boyfriend backstage as many times as one humanly can. He’s trying to get in as many as possible, so he doesn’t regret is when they’re sitting in the stands for two or so hours. 

His overall Olympic experience? Good. He won bronze. He kissed a boy. He watches Enjolras choke on borsch. 

These were all good and wonderful things. He had a boyfriend now too. A boyfriend who let him sleep with him, sit on his lap, who laughed at all his good puns and spun some of his own. Who really, really liked moths for some reason, who could read hieroglyphs and genuinely thought The Mummy was a good movie. That kind of boyfriend. He thinks that’s the best kind. 

They already have plans when they get back to France. They want to take a vacation, hang out by the sea for a bit. They want to test the waters of this relationship away from cameras and the pressure of the Olympics. Enjolras thinks this is stupid because, “if you can survive the Olympics together, you can survive anything.” Courfeyrac thinks he’s right, but he’s selfishly wanting to take Combeferre to the sea just to get a good look at his abs for a few days, and, really, to have him to himself. 

Combeferre is more than he bargained for. Courfeyrac didn’t know what he wanted that first night in February, when he grabbed a pretty boy in the crowd and flirted with him. A fling? Maybe. A relationship? Perhaps. Validation? Yeah, a little. Most of all, though, he’s simply glad he did it. What would he be now if he didn’t see Combeferre sleepy, or without his glasses? What would he be if he didn’t see Combeferre’s wet curls of Combeferre’s family photos? What would he be if he couldn’t eat dinner with Combeferre, or watch him hum along to ABBA in his room? 

Would he really be that happy then? He knows for certain it wouldn’t be as perfect as now. 

He thinks about all this as they begin to line up for the closing ceremonies, ready to walk out and wave amongst the audience. He whines, unwilling to pull himself off his boyfriend— his boyfriend! 

“Fey, darling,” another perk of dating Combeferre was his sweet nicknames, “I have to join the other curlers.”

“Curling? More like curling up next to you in bed, am I right?” Courfeyrac giggles, before slowly lifting himself up. He had to walk with the skaters anyways. 

“You’re cute.” Combeferre says, shaking his head. He’s changed. He isn’t so nervous anymore. “See you afterwards?”

“Of course.” Courfeyrac says, and they go to their friends. 

It’s been a pretty good Olympics. It’s been a lot. But he’s dating a bronze medalist— it can’t get any better than that, can it?


End file.
